


An Experiment

by twitchtipthegnawer



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Aphrodisiacs, Blood, Dirty Talk, Drugs, Glove Kink, Handcuffs, M/M, Mutual Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-03-01 03:23:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2757722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twitchtipthegnawer/pseuds/twitchtipthegnawer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the truth, all of it; Hershel had seen it with his own eyes. He'd been trapped for so long, fighting this dark mirror of himself, trying desperately to right the wrongs he could not admit he had committed. Now, at last, the game had ended. Hershel was caught. It was over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Experiment

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate universe where Clive doesn't exist, and future Luke does. Essentially, time travel is real, and future Layton really has been consumed by grief. As much as Layton tries to fight him, he's simply too driven, and eventually he wins. In his victory, he decides that having a second him around can certainly be useful, if only so there is another to share his pain.

The professor had made a terrible mistake. He still wasn’t sure quite how this evil version of himself had managed to position things so precisely, accurately predicting every movement down to the second so that things were just right. But here he was, locked in a dark room with his hands shackled to the wall above his head, heat swirling in the air around him like smothering velvet. That damn madman had won, impossibly, undeniably. It must have been days since he had left the professor in there, and by now his wrists were aching and his shoulders felt strained. His legs trembled as if they were about to give out, his panting breaths echoing around the room when suddenly, with a quiet creak, the door across from him slid open, revealing himself, dressed as if to attend a ball. The ever-present top hat sat perched on his head, a bit too worn around the edges to really blend in.

He stepped into the room slowly, shoes making muffled steps against the carpet. A silver tray sat balanced in his gloved hands, the dim light glinting off it and making patterns on the ceiling when Layton could no longer look at him and diverted his eyes upwards, as if wishing would let him escape. The dark mirror to himself stalked forward casually, as though there were no cup resting on a platter in his hands, filled with murky white liquid that made Hershel’s parched mouth water, despite the fear that churned his stomach. He swallowed his voice and stared upwards, unseeing, as those charcoal eyes devoured his face, read the pain etched there with a smile. “How lovely to see you again, professor,” the silken voice began, shifting its grip on the platter to release it with one hand, taking careful grasp of the cup and lifting it to Hershel’s chapped lips. “I’ve brought a drink, in case we were getting a bit, ah, thirsty.”

Layton pressed his lips together tightly, feeling the feathery touch of what was surely poison against his skin, a bead of it dripping down his chin in a thin strand of heavenly coolness. Trapped he may be, but he wouldn’t submit to such an obvious ploy. His copy must have known that, but even still he held the tantalizing promise against Layton’s mouth while a smile curled his own. “You wound me, professor,” he said, a chuckle sliding around his words, “I would not use such a cowardly trick as poison against you, of all people.” He tossed the tray down behind him smoothly, the soft white silk of his glove meeting Hershel’s cheeks and squeezing his jaw open, all benign insistence. The drink poured into Hershel’s mouth in a rush of sweetness, a bit too thick to be water but still relief after all this time. Against his will his throat opened, swallowing down gulp after gulp of it until there was nothing left, and the false professor was grinning. “That’s it,” he praised, dropping the glass to meet the tray on the carpet, drops soaking in and leaving a sticky dark splotch, almost like blood in the low light. Hershel’s tongue darted out longingly, the sugary aftertaste teasing him.

The professor’s arms shook, his whole body sagging down as the heat in the room seemed to intensify and solidify around him, hugging close and leaving him shaking. “What…” he gasped, tongue heavy in his mouth, “what have you done?” He received nothing more than another cryptic laugh in reply, the other stepping even closer and observing with shining eyes the way Hershel tried to pull against his chains, regain his footing. He raked his gaze down Layton’s body slowly, taking in the shirt clinging to his torso, the way his lips glistened with spit.

“So,” he mused, partly for Hershel’s benefit, and partly to himself, “that’s how it works, I see,” he reached out slowly and traced a fingertip against Hershel’s throat, at first feeling his pulse, but then allowing his touch to linger while a sinister thought seemed to form in his eyes. Hershel nearly gasped at the touch, his chin lifting of its own accord and his body arching forwards. The warmth had slipped itself beneath his skin and left a crawling desire in him, forcing his eyelids down and leaving him dazed, his wonderful mind useless, confused and afraid.

The gloved hand traced itself around to the back of his neck, fingers knotting in his hair and pulling, eliciting a tiny whimper from the helpless man in front of him. “I did not expect for it to take effect so quickly,” he whispered, his breath caressing Layton’s bared neck as he leaned forward to press his lips against it. A jolt passed through Hershel, deepening his breaths and causing his hips to jerk forward for a moment before he regained some measure of control, biting his tongue angrily at how easily he had been manipulated. “It seems,” the dark mirror continued with his genteel teasing, “that your susceptibility to touch is far above what was expected as well.” Slowly, he opened his mouth and bit down on Layton’s neck, the pressure increasing until Layton yelped in pain, tears welling up in his eyes as his oversensitive skin was ravished. “Or, could it be that you truly are enjoying this?” the awful professor asked, his teeth releasing Hershel’s skin long enough to tilt his head towards his twin’s, meeting his glazed eyes. “Does it remind you of our childhood, this endeavor? Does it remind you of hiding in your room with the door locked, your face burning in shame when you thought of our best friend…” He cut himself off abruptly, pushing his lips against Layton’s almost angrily. Hershel’s mouth opened readily, his tongue lapping against his double’s lips before getting caught in his teeth.

The false professor had a harsh smile when he leaned back, surveying the blood on Layton’s swollen lips. His own tongue darted out to lick some of it up, the iron taste seeming to leave him in a haze, his own eyes darkly delighted as he pressed close to Hershel, his hand releasing the hair it had been pulling to slide down his chest, making Layton shiver while the professor whispered in his ear, “do you still remember those times as clearly as I do, dear Hershel? Do you remember how we used to choke back moans, desperately trying to keep silent,” the professor’s hand reached beneath Layton’s shirt, teasing it’s way up to his chest before pinching his nipple hard, “we do not need to be silent now.” Hershel did moan, then, his voice coarse from the feeling coiling in his stomach, and he left the professor panting, his hand continuing to pinch at the professor’s chest while the other slipped between them, sliding beneath Hershel’s trousers and cupping him tenderly through his pants, his soft hands at odds with his teeth, which bit into Layton’s throat again, provoking another whimpering gasp.

The professor slid his fingers against Hershel, trailing lines against him before undoing his trousers enough to pull him from his pants as well. He pushed Hershel against the wall behind him, bracing one knee against his crotch and grinding it against his skin with another bite to his neck. Hershel felt as if his skin was on fire, at his chest and neck and everywhere his mirror was touching him. His mouth was filled with the taste of sweetness mixing with the horrible taste of blood and yet he was swallowing it as if it were the drink earlier, as though it were the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. His thoughts ran in useless circles, screaming at him to get away fast, before things could escalate any further, and yet his body was opening itself to this familiar stranger, reveling in his probing fingers and hard eyes. Hershel’s own dark eyes were burning with tears, the feeling of the harsh cloth of the professor’s trousers abrading his skin pure torture compared to the delicious silk from earlier. It took all of Layton’s will power to prevent himself from begging for more, more of that torture and more of the pleasure, just more.

Almost as though he could read Hershel’s mind, the professor slowed his touch, leaving his hands resting against Hershel’s feverish skin silently, getting his breath under control before he once again took Layton’s lips into his mouth, pressing the back of his head into the wall while the fingers of one hand danced down across his exposed stomach where his shirt had ridden up, fluttering those same fingers against Hershel’s dick, smearing precome over his skin. As though without his permission, the professor’s other hand left Hershel’s chest to undo his own trousers, releasing himself from them and pressing his own erection against Hershel’s, his hand taking both and sending electric shivers through the both of them. A whine rose in the back of Layton’s throat, the desire to push his hips into that soft grip overriding his pride piece by piece until he can’t help but begin to thrust, only to sob as the professor used his free hand to force Hershel’s hips against the wall, stilling him and forcing him to endure the incredibly light touches, even more exquisitely torturous than the harsh touching had been.

Even with the careful touching Hershel only lasts a few minutes before he’s coming, thick white ropes staining his shirt and pants. The professor released them both, lifting his hand to consider it then pushing a finger against Hershel’s lips, staining the come pink with blood when Hershel opened his mouth and began to suck, the bitter taste mixing with the others already warring in his mouth as his tongue wound between the professor’s gloved fingers. With a piercing gaze the professor took in the ravished man before him, blood streaked across his face and throat and come soaking into the fabric that hung off his body. He smiled sharply, teeth bared, then pulled away, his glove leaving Layton’s mouth soaked and ruined. Layton’s tongue chased after it for a moment, half hanging out of his torn mouth. The moment he lost contact with the professor Layton went limp, his muscles exhausted. Detachedly the professor put himself back together, straightening his clothes and peeling the gloves off, picking the discarded tray and cup up from the ground and slowly reducing the blush in his cheeks, until he’s standing at the doorway again, looking back at Layton hanging from the wall like a broken toy.

He smiled one last time before leaving Layton alone in his darkness and heat once more, the soft creak of the door echoing for a moment after he walked away.


End file.
